


Handmade Aioli

by Scandiaca



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cooking, Drinking, M/M, Sexual Tension, garlic - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 03:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/657772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scandiaca/pseuds/Scandiaca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes fancied himself to be very good at diplomatic and delicate matters. His work often required a numerous amount of qualities and talents, most of which the elder Holmes had required before even reaching adulthood. </p><p>However, cooking, was not one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handmade Aioli

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a RP with crapsahoy on Tumblr

Mycroft Holmes fancied himself to be very good at diplomatic and delicate matters. His work often required a numerous amount of qualities and talents, most of which the elder Holmes had required before even reaching adulthood. However, cooking, was not one of them. A delicate problem in France called for such a skill, and Mycroft was determined to make it through the crash-course at a 4 star kitchen. While the chef actually provided courses like these regularly, almost all of the participants were bored, vulgar upper class house wives, as Mycroft realized stepping into the kitchen and a full blown fight for frying pans. Fearing for his sanity, the government official was very glad albeit surprised to find a silver haired DI amongst the crowd of females. "Detective Inspector!", he exclaimed, making his way over to the man. "What a fortunate surprise!"

"Mycroft Holmes," Greg replied, slightly bewildered, tying his apron cords. He'd never formally met the man. Well, not properly. He'd seen him, he'd stood by while Sherlock berated him, but never properly met. Both names seemed more appropriate than any alternative he could think of. He'd look like a cock calling him "Mr Holmes", especially in front of all the lovely ladies of the class, some of whom he was rather trying to impress. "I... Didn't exactly have you down as someone for something like this."

Mycroft nodded, discreetly giving a few of the most forward women a ice-cold glare as they tried to position themselves closer to the DI. "I could say the same. May I inquire why you are attending this kind of gathering?" Standing right next to the other man, he held his position, sadly not able to block a rather resilient female from stepping in on the other side. This was turning out to become a bit more complicated than anticipated.

The elder Holmes had always had an healthy interest in the handsome DI, who already knew his brother and even worked with him, albeit reluctantly. Giving the obvious heterosexuality of said man, Mycroft had refrained from "having a secluded chat" with the law enforcer. The politician was not a fan of masochism, in a physical or mental way.

"Been cooking for a while," Greg said, smiling slightly at Mycroft's obvious disapproval as the women crowded around him. "Just thought I'd join a course to... You know. Brush up on my skills." His eyes glanced at the ladies around him, and he realized how unconvincing that reason was, even to him. Watching Mycroft's eyebrows raising, he shot a defensive look.

"Well, why are you doing it?" He watched as Mycroft unfastened his cufflinks, slipping them into his waistcoat pocket, and rolled the sleeves of his shirt. There was something almost sensual about it, seeing such a tidy man readying himself for something so "normal".

For a moment, the politician contemplated not taking off any part of his clothing. He hated not to show to his full potential, bespoke suit and hair slicked in place. He could already feel his strands curl at the humidity in the room around them. Still, working like this would not only be uncomfortable, but downright ridicules. He collected his cuffs and pulled up his sleeves, trying not to feel self-conscious at the freckled skin showing. "I have yet to acquire the skill of French cuisine, and an occasion has arisen where it is needed," he answered. Of course the elder Holmes didn't believe Lestrade's explanation, but he tried not to mind the real

Greg was pleased to stop the awkward small-talk, though he was rather intrigued. He had to admit, the women were making it a little difficult to chat openly. Fortunately, the head chef chose the moment to clap his hands dismissively, as a call for silence.

"Today," he said, eyes barely open as he addressed the room, "We are making the Aioli. Is very easy, we start gently so as to not frighten our less experienced cooks, non? You will watch, and then we will work at the stations. Please, come around."

The politician wanted to groan at the mention of Aioli. Delightful, garlic! Just the kind of ingredient which would have him carrying around the smell on his hands for the remaining day.

Greg moved with the group in order to watch more closely, feeling a pair of frighteningly solid breasts pressing against his back as he inched towards the chef's station. He suddenly wished he'd brought paper for notes, "easy" as the damn thing might be.

Mycroft felt irritation rise as the woman blatantly pressed her cosmetically developed front against the DI. Stepping next to the police man, he made sure to at least have his side brush against Lestrade's.

"All right to begin with we are going to start with two whole cloves of fresh garlic. With the blade of the knife, I'm going to press down on a clove to release the paper or peel. Remove that, and begin by giving the garlic another press with your knife to flatten it out. This makes chopping it a lot easier, more efficient," the chef explained, knife nearly disappearing at the speed he was wielding it with.

Mycroft tried not to shiver at the thought of every single female in this room soon grasping a knife.

"Oh, and one more thing. Our two hommes, they are going to work together. I will have no femmes fighting in my kitchen." Knives. Disappointed females. He might be in desperate need of a bodyguard, after all.

Greg heard an audible sigh of disappointment from the woman behind him, and looked around to glance at Mycroft, who looked thoroughly uncomfortable in the throng of perfumed and lacquered women.

He smiled at Mycroft, eyes twinkling as if to convey the gratitude at the bullet dodged by not having to choose a partner.

Mycroft was still contemplating defense mechanisms as suddenly, Lestrade turned to him and gave him a dazzling smile. The government official was feeling his face flush and tried desperately not to twitch. Self-control! He was a Holmes, for the Queen's sake.

"And now we add..." Greg wasn't really listening. There was a high heeled foot pressing against his, clearly intentionally. He stepped to his left to avoid it, and found himself pressed against Mycroft. Not wanting to make a scene with more shuffling, he remained where he was. Mycroft, of all people, wouldn't see anything stupid in it. And besides, the smell of warm cotton and black pepper was infinitely more pleasing than the sickly scents of too much Elnette.

Mycroft listened to chef talk about salt and pressing down, at least until he felt the DI press against him more clearly. Mycroft allowed himself as little intake of breath, pushing back as much as he dared without letting the other man notice. Gun-powder, beer and coffee. Why would the DI smell of anything else? The elder Holmes suddenly realised that he had a much bigger problem on his hands than imagined. His little adoration towards Lestrade seemed to intensify by the minute.

His mind wandered, until the chef clapped his hands once more and the crowd dispersed.

 _Fuck_ , he thought, and turned to Mycroft, desperate for reassurance that at least one of them knew what they were meant to be doing.

As the chef send them back to their work stations, the politician felt a little shaken, and quite unsure on what the second part of their instruction had entailed. Facing the garlic on their work benches, Mycroft gave it a hard glare. "I will reek of that for the rest of the day!" he muttered, unaware that Lestrade was the only one close enough to hear.

The Yarder giggled. Not hugely manly, but it was difficult not to.

"Don't be silly, I know a trick for that." His eyes met with Mycroft's grumpy gaze. "You just run your hands under water with a steel spoon when you're done, it takes most of the smell away. True story, that, my mum taught it to me when I was little." Proud of himself, he turned back to his station, face falling slightly.

"Oh god, what was I doing..." He looked at Mycroft's Garlic. Yeah, no problem. Something with knives and pressing and all that. He turned his knife and pressed the garlic. Not a not happened. He squared his shoulders and pressed with more weight. "Yeah, well. Something wrong with this one, obviously," he muttered incoherently, fetching the rest of the bulb and prising off a few more cloves.

 Mycroft spluttered at the advice of his "work partner" mouth still fighting a smile while his eyes sparkled. God, he really had to be besotted.

"I will express my gratitude by telling you that this is not the way..." Mycroft started while pealing off the skin of his own root, before he felt a piece of garlic hit him at the temples.

With a very baffled expression, he fully turned around to the DI.

"Did you just throw garlic at me?" he hissed, unbelieving what had just happened. "Contrary to popular believe, I am not a vampire!" This man! This infuriating, garlic throwing, coffee drinking man! There was no reason for a Holmes to feel besotted to such an infuriating individual.

"What? I didn't throw the damn thing, I'm just having trouble with... How the hell is yours already cut up? For god's sake..." Greg's 'I cook a lot anyway' story was unravelling pretty quickly. "No, don't do it for me!" he said as Mycroft leant to take the knife from him. "Just show me. It's just a knack, that's all."

Mycroft shook his head, realizing too late that by running one hand through his hair (A nervous gesture he had conquered years ago!) he actually aided the curling and ruffling of his strands. Giving the DI another stern look "Nevertheless, I would kindly ask you to refrain from attacking me again. Intentional of otherwise." Mycroft took another two pieces, making a show out of turning them with the round side up.

Leaning closer under the pretence of not disturbing the other participants, the elder Holmes explained in a low voice: "This way your knife won't slip from the garlic, and you can afterwards peel it. Flatten it out again to cut fast." The whole thing was really getting ridicules.

Mycroft should see no appeal in a man who didn't know what to do with his hands. Pun intended. Still, he found this clear feature of the DI more endearing than telling. The politician needed to remind himself that this was not an individual he should be pursuing.

"And I apologize for hindering your clear goal to meet somebody through this course. I will make sure to pick a different one in the future." he added, somewhat dejected even in his own eyes.

"Are you implying that I might not be here because I'm already an avid cook after all?" Greg's eyebrows raised, lips twitching in a wry smile. "Anyway, you can't just abandon me now with all these" his voice lowered "terrifying women. I'm enjoying the company I'm in right now, thanks."

Greg was distracted by Mycroft's fingers. He started to wonder if the man played the piano. The thought of him relaxing in the evenings with one was rather satisfying, such strong looking fingers. "Are you... Married?" he asked, looking confusedly at the gold ring on one of them.

Mycroft actually gave the man a small smile, raising one eyebrow before going back to deal with this own ingredient. Salt, the chef had said something about salt, didn't he? But what was he supposed to do with it?

Feeling the other man's eyes on his work, Mycroft felt compelled to do anything, something worth Lestrade watching. So he used a pinch of salt and started kneading it into the garlic with his hands. The politician would definitely need Lestrade's trick afterwards.

After hearing the DI's admission, he couldn't help let his eyes flutter for a moment, memorizing the words in a shameless attempt of preserving them in his mind. His hands paused briefly as the other man inquired about his relationship status.

"No, Detective Inspector. I am not. And if I ever felt so inclined, my only option would be a civil partnership, I am afraid," Mycroft stated truthfully, eyes focussed on his work while he waited for the DI to shift away from him. It was one of the smaller telling reactions Mycroft had encountered before.

"Oh. Well, yes. Right. Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude." Greg flushed slightly. Oh come on, it wasn't exactly news to him.

But still, Mycroft at the piano started morphing into Mycroft's fingers against a man's thigh.  _Oh, for fuck's sake Greg, that's juvenile._ He somehow couldn't quite imagine it. Or rather, he could, but couldn't bare to. Mycroft, sweating, possibly even  _trembling_ , hand on the thigh of some gorgeous young Adonis.

He looked at the man, whose hair had already come free of its perfect composure. Already a little dishevelled. Greg cleared his throat, hoping it would do the same for his mind. He mirrored Mycroft's actions, smearing the mixture around his board with his knife, before reaching for the eggs.

"So, no boyfriend then?" He asked, still intrigued.

Now Mycroft paused completely, discreetly brushing glarlic-goo off his hands. (Why had he opted to use his hands instead of a knife again?) Looking over at the silver haired man, he tried to objectively analyse what he was seeing.

Slightly flushed face, dilated pupils, slightly wider stance than usual. No, Mycroft had to be seeing things. Probably a belated reaction to the crowd of females. Still, after the chef told them to use on bowl per pair, having one person stir while the other added ingredients, Mycroft took the excuse to move even closer.

"My, my, Detective Inspector Lestrade, to a lesser man, this might sound like an offer," he murmured, taking the whisk in hand.

"Oh, no! I just wondered. Just curious." Greg was notably flustered. He fussed with ingredients, feeling Mycroft's side press against him firmly. How was Mycroft staying so cool? Greg could have sworn the temperature was at least five degrees higher than when he'd arrived.

"Sodding hell," he muttered, almost inaudibly. "Do you... Know what we're doing now? I wasn't really listening. Much."

"Whatever the case," Mycroft offered, feeling a light grin return to his features. "I  _am_ unattached. And I do play the piano, as you were wondering before." Seeing as he suddenly found a good excuse to dodge manual labour, in his eyes only topped by legwork in its unpleasantness, Mycroft extended the whisk towards the other man.

"If you will promise not to intentionally maim me, I will offer to add ingredients while you ... stir," His lips might of might not have pulled up into an slow smile. The close proximity of the DI made him feel a bit light headed, and foolish. That was never a good combination.

"How did y-" _Oh, fuck. Shitting hell._ How much more did he know? He can't have known about the other thought, it wouldn't be possible. The piano thing was plausible, at least. Gosh, but it was a nice thought. Now the Adonis was sharing the piano stool with him. Now on his lap. Facing towards him.

"Yes, right, the stirring. Sure." Greg pushed his sleeves up further, and started to whisk the eggs. Police training reducing arms that performed 50 pressups before breakfast to an almost-as-good-as-mechanical whisk. Well, gosh. Time obviously well spent. Greg tried to focus on a steady rhythm as Mycroft drew closer.

"I see you are very fit... I mean, yes. Very healthy." Mycroft heard himself say, scandalised not only by his stuttering but also by the content. How obvious could one person get in stating his interest.

As he added the first ingredients, leaving the slowly adding oil part for last, the government official felt himself radiating even closer towards the steadily moving body next to him. By now, Lestrade had to feel crowded. It was very unbecoming of a Holmes. The DI seemed to be deep in thought, and his breathing pattern had increased, too. Was this? Usually he would file this away under sexual attraction and possibly sexual thoughts, but this was DI Lestrade. Divorced, heterosexual DI Lestrade.

With a short sigh, Mycroft shifted away slightly. "If the object of your obvious affection is in the room, I might be able to tell you whether she is married or not. A man with such a strong moral code as yourself would want to know, I assume," the politician offered, trying to feel content with the strong stab of jealousy he felt.

Greg snapped out of his rhythm, splashing a tiny drop of the mixture against his chest- thankfully covered by his apron. "Oh, no. I wasn't thinking about any women. Sorry, got a bit distracted," he cleared his throat again, his voice was somewhat hoarser than he hoped. Had... Had Mycroft said something about him being fit? Had he imagined that? He didn't dare risk it in case he had. "Is it the oil now?" he asked, looking into Mycroft's face for the first time in about five minutes. The two momentarily locked eyes.

Mycroft felt his face actually flush, eyes shining as the other man basically told him that... well... that it wasn't a woman he had been thinking about. And seeing as the French chef was (hopefully) a bit out of Lestrade's age range... While the elder Holmes still tried to make up his mind on how to proceed with this new found information, he was basically blind sided with the sudden pair of brown eyes locking with his own.

His mouth worked without words, as he could actually see open attraction in the other's features. That proofed to be a bit too much of a surprise, and made Mycroft drop the oil he had been holding into their mixing bowl, all at once. Hearing the distinct plop, the government official finally looked down, eyes going wide. "Bollocks!" he heard himself mutter, as the egg flocked out, ruining their Aioli in barely a moment.

Greg burst into quiet giggles. "Oh lord. I think we're a bit hopeless, to be honest." His giggles only intensified as Mycroft's eyebrows raised and he cracked a wry smile. Women from the neighbouring table looked around, obviously irked by the giggling in the otherwise concentrated room.

Mycroft was scandalised by his own inability to keep a straight face. But Gregory's laugh was just contagious. It was low and soft and... he had just used the DI's first name. Mentally, but still, it wasn't as if Mycroft should even know it.

 "Thank god I wasn't trying to impress them after all..." Greg put the bowl down and ran his fingers through his hair, smiling. "I think I'm about ready to cut my losses with this lot, you know. Do you want to get a drink afterwards?" He started to run his fingers under the tap, rubbing them against the metal spoon. "Sort this out first, obviously."

He handed the spoon to Mycroft, who did the same. "Nah, it's more like there. Put your thumb in the dip, get it off your fingertips." Greg's left hand casually pressed Mycroft's left thumb into the bowl of the spoon before quickly letting go and drying himself with a tea-towel.

As their hands briefly made contact under the water, the elder Holmes made a decision which could potentially proof quite disastrous. Still, as he dried off his hands and blatantly ignored the affronted look of their chef, Mycroft figured it was his only option in retaining his sanity. As it was, the auburn haired man stepped clearly into Gregory's personal space, glance searching the other's. "I am more than willing to accept this invitation. However, I must ask you to acknowledge my very much obvious attraction towards your person as part of my explanation. Should that make you feel uncomfortable..."

"It doesn't," Greg answered, too quickly, almost garbled. "I mean, it doesn't make me uncomfortable. At all." He cleared his throat, blushed and turned away. "This isn't discomfort, for the record, it's--" he broke off, not actually wanting to say aloud what exactly it  _was_.

Mycroft felt a shot of pure, possessive arousal travel through his body as he finally let himself trust the signs he was seeing. Gregory was interested. Not only that, but obviously already past most of the critical awkwardness of suddenly feeling attraction to the same sex.

Fortunately, the chef had clapped his hands to announce the end of the class, and Greg was saved the embarrassment of having to finish his sentence. The two men collected their coats, briefcases, and Mycroft his ubiquitous umbrella, and they walked from the building with very few polite farewells.

After the class, the government official took the lead, arriving at a pub with quiet, private booth but strong, home-brewed beer to the DI's taste. As they sat down, Mycroft contemplated taking the seat next to Gregory, but opted for the opposing one instead. He didn't want to seem quite as desperate.

After they had recieved their orders, a strong scotch on the rocks for the government official, Mycroft felt the need to notify the other man about a few things.

"You do realize Sherlock will know as soon as you meet him again? I mean, about this... encounter. He will... have a few chosen things to say about me, I am sure." Distractedly, the elder Holmes again pulled his hand through the now visible curls of his hair. The only thing satisfying about that movement was the slight dilation of Gregory's pupils.

Greg smiled. "I'm police. I doubt I need Sherlock protecting me." He'd never known Mycroft's hair curled. Must run in the family. He watched those strong fingers slip through it, and instantly thought of replacing them with his. "Anyway, nothing to be ashamed of. We're both men here. This is just... Something new. We can always just sort of... Stop. If something's not right." Piano playing hands. The piano, dishevelled, floppy-haired Mycroft, shirt cuffs rolled up. A small shiver ran down his spine. He finished his beer.

"Let me get the next round." He stood. "Mini-round," he corrected. He returned with the same again, This time sitting next to Mycroft, passing him his drink.

The politician found himself inhaling in surprise as the infuriating man sat down next to him. "Gregory," he mumbled, only noticing his slip up after it had already left his mouth. Still, there was no use in turning back now. Laying one hand lightly upon the other's thigh, the elder Holmes turned towards his... date and clarified. "He will tell you I am the most dangerous man you have ever met. He will tell you that I spy on him and everybody associated. That I am a cold, government figure whose words can start or prevent wars. And... he will not be wrong." There, he had said it. Mycroft was no fool, he knew he could have sidesteped this conversation for a while. But the government official didn't want to. This was a possible relationship. Lies were not a solid basis for that.

Greg raised his eyes at the use of his name... Well, sort of his name. In Mycroft's voice it sounded very different. He tried not to smile through Mycroft's earnest speech, before breaking the silence.

"You do realise that it's Sherlock, whom I've known for years, and that he gives that introduction whenever he can?" He smirked slightly. "Do you think I'm the sort of guy to sit in a pub with a man's hand on my leg if I didn't think I could cope with what he did during the day?" He saw Mycroft's eyes roll as his cheeks flushed slightly, removing his hand. He leant closer, voice growling through his smile.

"I know who you are, I know what you do. I also notice you took your hand off my leg, which is the only bit of this I'm not liking at the moment."

Mycroft let out a quiet groan, unable to tear his eyes away from the wonderful, handsome DI in front of him. That voice! In the politician's humble opinion, it should be outlawed to use such a tone in a public conversation. Not so discreetly adjusting himself in a more comfortable position, licking his lips, Mycroft returned his hand to the other's thigh, this time a bit higher and firmer up into  _publicly indecent_.

This just wouldn't do. The auburn haired man was, after all, the one with previous experience. He should not be the nervous one. In order to redeem his embarrassment, the politician leaned closer, until his lips brushed the shell of Lestrade's ear as he inquired lowly. "I see, so tell me, Gregory, would a more forward approach be more to your liking? I believe you had a few thoughts about piano stools before?" By now, his whole upper body was pressed against Lestrade's, sharing not only their body heat but also scents.

 _Oh for fuck's sake_. Greg's mind spun at the touch of Mycroft's low tones.  _Bloody hell_. "You can't have known about that," he whispered, racking his brains for what else he'd thought, while Mycroft's strong fingers massaged his thigh gently.  _Bloody hell_.

"You forget who actually taught my brother about deductions. Now, I will admit that at first I ignored the tells, categorized it as wishful thinking. You can imagine my delight..." Voice trailing off, Mycroft opted for kissing along the DI's neck, towards his jawline.

God, the silver haired man was exhilarating. The elder Holmes usually prided himself with self control, but he simply couldn't find the will to stop his hand and lips from wandering. Even if they were quite possibly moving too fast.

Greg's breath hitched slightly as Mycroft's hand trailed up towards the prominent bulge forming at the front of his trousers. He moaned softly as the other man kissed, sucked and gently grazed his neck, teeth dragging ever so softly over the delicate skin. Greg couldn't resist- his hand rose to cradle the back of Mycroft's neck, and he pulled him to a kiss, his breath hot and unsteady, tongue gently probing his lover's mouth. "I wish I could be sitting like that with you now," he whispered in lusty earnest.

Mycroft drank in all the sounds Gregory was making, feeling quite addicted to them in fact. As the other man finally signalled his need for a proper kiss, the politician felt like he could loose himself in the other's mouth. Using both hands to pull him closer, massaging the scalp under his fingertips in sensual circles, he started to brush his tongue against Gregory's, humming in pleasure at the agility he found.

Mycroft felt himself stir, and pulled back eventually. "I think... that would count as public indecency. And..." he licked his lips, willing himself to make the right choice. "As much as I would be delighted to offer a change of location, I wouldn't want to rush. You will find me...." A slow, grin, almost shy. "Quite old fashioned, if you can believe it."

"I can well believe it," Greg smiled, gazing up at his lover with admiration and joy. His mind felt so clear, he felt so elated. "In that case- dinner? on Friday? I'll cook." He took mock offense at Mycroft's raised eyebrows. "I _can_ cook, Mycroft! I was just distracted earlier!" He sighed to himself. "Don't worry, I'll try to get most of it done before you arrive so I don't poison us both."

Mycroft actually chuckled, feeling himself relax against the other man. "In  _any_ case, I am looking forward to it. Now, if I could just _learn_ how to cook without going in this dreadful course." Nuzzling his newly acquired date's neck in a soft gesture, he mumbled with mock distress. "The things I do for Queen and Country."

"Queen and Country is how to get you to do anything. Right, I'll remember that one," he chuckled, kissing Mycroft. "Come on, cabs home. It'll be kicking out time in five minutes."

The two rose. On getting into his cab, Greg didn't kiss Mycroft in case of cameras, and instead took his hand discreetly, squeezing it gently, and briefly rubbing the other man's thumb with his own. He looked forward to Friday.


End file.
